


They Are Joined Fast To One Another

by cantonforking



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantonforking/pseuds/cantonforking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>'...everything about John, inside and out, has been defined by war.'</i>
<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	They Are Joined Fast To One Another

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my friend's birthday who prompted with 'body heat'. This is my first Sherlock fic so I apologise for OOC or inaccuracies.

It’s funny how cold it gets in London, until the windows are misty with condensation and the world outside disappears. Sure, it’s England, of course it gets cold, but John still thinks it is strange when he wakes up in the morning and his teeth are knocking together. Sherlock opens all the windows for some reason, even when winter has turned the trees into skeletons. Something about fresh air for his mind.

The cold reminds John of the battlefield. It reminds him of long days and longer nights, sand mixed with blood clinging to damp clothes. There’s nothing warm here in this Hell, nothing to huddle against except cold corpses with emotionless, staring eyes watching his breath mist. There’s nothing except the chattering of teeth like artillery voices.

After dreams like that, John wakes up reaching for a gun that is no longer propped up next to him. Adrenaline surges through him and all he wants to do is run through gunfire until everything fades to background noise except the heavy breathing that lets him know he’s alive. He is caught between the want for cold steel in his hands and the need for warm skin under his fingertips. After dreams like that he wraps his hand around his leg and digs in his fingers until all he can feel is the thick pain and the spasming muscles.

When sun reaches past the condensation and the half-alive dawn chorus starts, he finally has an excuse to go down into the living room. He sits on the chair there, staring at the wall until Sherlock emerges from his bedroom – which is never really that long. Then John stares at his friend. When your dreams are full of glassy eyes and limp limbs, there is nothing quite like the human body.

And it’s not that Sherlock is more attractive than others, with his pale skin and black hair. No, really, it’s not that. There is something else about the consulting detective, something in the wild movements that are never made without a purpose. Something about the eyes that know so much and say so little. Whatever it is, somehow it makes Sherlock so human to John that the battlefield melts into the streets of London and then...

John’s fingers pass over his dust-coated walking stick and his feet fall in their ingrained march. Left, right, left, right.

  


By the afternoon they have another case. John knows their late trip to the local library isn’t for recreation. Conversation passes between them on the way there, Sherlock bouncing ideas off a brick wall. John just nods and lets the sound of voices calm his adrenaline pulse, thoughtlessly rubbing the bruise on his leg.

This kind of conversation isn’t for company. It’s Sherlock running the facts through his brain like sand through his fingers, sifting out the expensive gold flecks. John is only there so his friend doesn’t look any more insane.

He knows the basic story already anyway; he read the file when Sherlock wasn’t looking. The victim’s name is Jeff Grunberg, 28, single. Found in an alleyway two days ago beaten to death with a rotting plank of wood. Grunberg worked at the library, which is why they are on their way there now. Just another murder. John wonders why Sherlock is interested.

  


The case doesn’t take long. It isn’t quite hard enough to sap the spark that has appeared in Sherlock’s eye. John would wonder why Sherlock has chosen such an easy puzzle but he has so many questions about the strange detective, he can’t fit another one in his mind. Instead he is bundled into a cab with a bored Sherlock who stares out the window in the sullen silence of a child who has had their game taken away from them.

The ride is quiet. John sits too close to his friend; he always has after A Study In Pink, where he saw the rotting belly of London. It’s not that he thinks Sherlock can protect him, he’s not a damsel in distress. It’s just comforting to have a man by your side, another set of eyes to watch your back. Besides, Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind.

London passes by in a whirl of spindle trees and people wrapped in too many layers. Melting snow has slicked the pavements until every step is a cautious one, and there is more white dust to come if, for once, the weather man is to be believed. Fairy lights have started appearing on shop fronts, tiny coloured dots along the streets to lead the oblivious wanderer into the Christmas commodity mire.

“So...” John turns expectantly to his friend, watching the weak lights come and go on the high angles of his cheeks. “Who was it then?”

“The second librarian,” Sherlock replies with only a hint of smugness as his gaze flicks to John. “What was his name?”

“Matthew Finter.” John remembers the lanky man, high-strung and stumbling over his words, an asthma inhaler permanently in his chest pocket. “Why?”

“He’s an erotomaniac, among other things.” A small smile pricks at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth at the clueless expression on John’s face. “He believed that Grunberg was in love with him.”

“Okay, erotomaniac.” John quietly slotts the word away for use in future conversation, not that he expects to be using it - at least, not in polite company. “That doesn’t mean he killed the man.”

“There was a calendar in the rubbish bin,” Sherlock starts. John settles back more comfortably into the seat. “He had circled the day Grunberg was killed. The bin had been moved so Finter wouldn’t have to look at it but he kept bumping into it and tried to place himself so we couldn’t see its contents.

“As we came in he was trying to get a splinter out of his right index finger. It definitely wasn’t the first one either considering the bloody tissues in with the calendar. It was clear he had been handling wood of some kind lately.

“When he opened his drawer you could see his personal effects, photos of his family, and another photo frame containing an image of Grunberg and a family member that would fit perfectly in the dust-free space at the back of Grunberg’s desk.

“Erotomania is often present in individuals with other mental disabilities such as bipolar and psychosis. Either of those could have cause Finter to become delusional or angry enough to kill Grunberg when he was rejected. The asthma inhaler and anxiety suggests any number of other mental concerns. Finter is our killer. Case closed.”

“I-” John stops, trying to process the last few sentences. “That’s brilliant.” Sherlock turns back to the window, eyes flicking back and forth at they followed the millions of worlds outside. In the multi-coloured blur of fairy lights John can see the slight curve of his friend’s lips.

  


A chill patters along John’s side as they climb out of the taxi at 221B Baker Street, the warmth from his friend’s body disappearing quickly in the cold air. Sherlock is already on the pavement and disappearing into the apartment. John sighs lightly and pulls out his wallet, praying he has enough to pay the fare. He does. Just.

“Thank you for helping with the fare,” he calls half-heartedly into the apartment. “That was most of my money for food.”

“You can use my card.”

“Last time I did that a Chinese gang thought I was you and tried to kill me.”

There is some kind of animal skull now sitting on John’s chair. He considers asking Sherlock why but he knows the answer will only disturb or bemuse. Instead he just sits at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the half-read newspaper in front of him.

After a few moments his eyes focus and he starts reading the words, a pointless exercise to distract a tired mind. Even then the words don’t penetrate the mist in his brain until he reads the personal ad under his fingers that has Sherlock’s indecipherable scribblings all over it. The ad is huge, at least half the page, and must have cost a fortune. It reads:

  
**Only one in the world  
Looking for another like me  
Solve the library love  
And I might give you a go  
\- M**   


Sherlock’s handwriting still remains coded except for one name; _‘Moriarty’_. John turns around, questions clambering for attention on his lips, but the room is empty. Battlefields cover cities, countries and continents. War spews forth fear like rats bring pestilence. He won’t admit it, not to himself let alone anyone else, but John has never been this afraid. Not of only one man.

Sherlock doesn't reappear until John is setting food on their table made for two. It is a pretend dinner, a meal cobbled together from whatever John could find in the cupboard. It has been too long since the pantry has been restocked and he is not looking forward to the battle.

Dinner is silent, atmosphere caught in the fringes of the snow falling outside. Every breath seems like false hope for a conversation. Sherlock is a million miles away or maybe just two, it’s hard to tell. No matter, though, John sits and eats and pretends there is conversation. It is nothing new to him. In the bomb-blasted buildings and cracked resolves, the only people who talk in a language other than fear are those who are already dead.

It takes half the meal before Sherlock realises that the silence is suffocating, closing in around them like a bubble trying to cut off their air supply. John knew that he would catch on eventually. Sherlock is nothing if not unpredictable but John knows him now, knows how his mind works. Most of the time, anyway.

“Okay.” Outside the snow continues falling on a world it has already laid claim to. “What is it?”

For a moment John considers telling his friend the truth, that John doesn’t know who he is anymore. Everything from the marks on his body to the scars on his mind, everything about John, inside and out, has been defined by war. He considers telling Sherlock that there is no place in the world for him, not even in the life of a man so tangled in other’s lives that he scarcely has one to call his own. Not in this world where fear and danger are everyday symptoms.

“You didn’t know his name,” he says eventually. It’s hollow and Sherlock can probably tell, but it is the first thing he thinks of. “You didn’t know Matthew Finter’s name.”

“There are many people whose names I don’t know.” This is a conversation they’ve had before, different words with the same meaning. “Are you worried about Moriarty?”

“Of course I am! Believe it or not, I’m rarely in danger of being killed by a _consulting criminal_.”

“No, no, of course not.” Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of his face and John starts to worry. “It’s something new.” John knows what is coming next before his friend says it. “It’s exciting.”

He doesn’t bother answering with sharp words and tampered volume. He doesn’t bother reminding Sherlock of the collateral count that is stacking up or the frightened voices over the phone of those in the wrong place at the wrong time. He doesn’t even bother mentioning their evening by the pool when the watery grave coloured them sickly blue and he was sure that he was going to die. Again.

It’s moments like these, when he has already lost the argument before it begins, that he thinks that maybe Sergeant Donovan was right. Maybe fishing is a better hobby. Sherlock is walking off once more, mind lost in the great game or perhaps fixated on that moment when he pointed a gun at a bomb and made a decision. Idly John wonders if Sherlock ever second-guesses himself or just takes it on some kind of faith that he made the right choice.

“And John.” Sherlock is leaning around the door frame, face as blank as ever. “I won’t let anyone else die.”

Then he is calling a goodbye and vanishing through the door, coat and scarf securely in place. John watches his friend from the window as he hails a taxi and climbs in without a backwards glance. The taxi spins around the corner, lost in a sea of cold-bitten people with Christmas smiles, and John turns his attention to the dinner dishes.

Maybe fishing is a better hobby.

  


It’s cold then, in that moment when one thinks that they are going to die. John is staring down a gun and the man holding it laughs, spit flying from his mouth and falling on the blood stricken ground. Artillery-fire clatters on in the distance, fireworks that no one will smile at.

“Please, God, let me live,” he whispers and he doesn’t have to use his imagination. The man laughs louder and his finger pulls the trigger.

John wakes. His room is blue from the moonlight glancing off the snow-coated world. There is a weight pressing into the mattress next to him and hands are shaking him awake. It was all a nightmare or a dream or both. Adrenaline pounds in his temple and for a second he can almost smell the gunpowder residue.

“You were yelling.” Sherlock’s face is shadowed, nothing more than a silhouette sitting on his bed, back turned against the outside world. “I thought I should wake you.”

“Yes, yes.” John’s mind isn’t working properly yet. All he can think is that he doesn’t want to go back to sleep. “I just had a dream.”

“A nightmare.” He sends Sherlock a questioning look, or at least he thinks he does. Waking up slows you down, alters your perception of the world. You don’t sleep on the edge of the battlefield, not with metallic lullabies. “You said you had a dream but if you were pleading for your life I assume it was a nightmare.”

“Well, yes. A nightmare. I had a nightmare.”

Sherlock fades away then, blurs until he is part of the night. The weight is still there beside John but the lines of the detective’s body have melted away. It’s as though he can only be seen if he wants to be. John is tempted to reach out a hand to find that angular face, to see however he can in the night, but it’s too much effort for a half-asleep body.

Instead they stay in their allotted places for a long time, John struggling to stay awake against the insistent fingers trying to pull him under. He’s afraid that if he closes his eyes he will fall back into those dreams of war that only become nightmares when he wakes. There’s no telling what Sherlock is thinking, but John can feel his eyes on him and it sets something crawling under his skin, neither pleasant nor unwanted.

For a long time they stay like that until Sherlock stands and suddenly he’s crisp clear in the dark, the edges of his face, pajamas, skin, outlined in moonlight. John has forgotten how tall the detective is until he’s the only thing in the room. There’s a heartbeats hesitance, such a strange occurrence when Sherlock Holmes is the one hesitating. Then the detective is lifting up the cover and sliding in beside John.

“What-” Any thoughts of sleep evaporate. “Sherlock? What are you doing?”

“You’re cold.” John hadn’t noticed it until now but he’s shivering and the window’s still open. “The most efficient way to keep warm is to conserve body heat.” Without another word Sherlock falls still, his long body stretched out alongside John’s, turned away from his friend. There’s a few seconds delay, a momentarily nerve disconnection, then John feels the heat of his friend seep in where their bodies meet.

Sometimes John doesn’t think that Sherlock really needs him, thinks that he just puts up with the straight-backed military man because he would look strange talking to himself. Once or twice he has thought about leaving, going somewhere an army veteran can afford to live. Despite the short weeks, months that John has known Sherlock, he already knows he will not leave the consulting detective. They need each other.

One by one his muscles relax. Each clenched joint eases and John sinks into the mattress, mind lost in the swirling pool of warmth he has fallen into. Sherlock is pressed against his side, the knobs of his spine knuckling into John’s arm and yet all it brings is comfort.

John closes his eyes and dreams. War explodes over his head, artillery fire coughs and clatters, gunfire cackles and hidden underneath it all are human voices screaming and yelling and proclaiming just how alive they are. His heartbeat is so fast John doesn’t know how his body is keeping up.

At his side he can feel the warm, steady presence of another soldier, another body trapped where it belongs. They line up their weapons and it is skin against skin, metal against metal. John looks down the sights, the crosshairs that determine the world. For a moment he stops and thinks and leans against the eternal presence at his side. He stops and thinks of Queen and country and white flags painted red. He stops and thinks about the heat that has squirmed into his body and settled in his bones. Then he pulls the trigger.

  



End file.
